THE SABBATH DAY.

Sweetest and fairest of the days that dawn Upon Elysian hill, and over lawn, And field, and city spread a roseate light! The morning of the Sabbath day—in dight Of many a hallowed strain it comes. The bell Of every village o’er the plain doth tell, From its high seat, within the sacred tower Above the house of God, from hour to hour, A joyous song; and in cathedral town The gladsome peals break forth and warble down; While through the city every belfrey gives A glad reply, which seems to say, “He lives! He lives!” The song of praise is heard ascend, Raised to the heavenly throne, in one to blend With angels’ song, from many a cottage rung, Where on this day the father with his young Sits down in peace; while, in the pine grove down The rural glen, a myriad voices crown The clear-tuned solo of the warbling thrush, Or oft in chorus to a duet flush, Sung with the full-piped blackbird of the wood, Their notes are joined. The aspect and the mood Of everything is changed, as wont on day Of toil the crowded city moves to lay The bands of slumber for a time away, But brings not out the bustle and the din Which is her weekday aspect; and within Her walls a stilly peace prevails; the roar And noise of lumbering waggon comes no more Along the well-worn street, nor busy tread Of envoy, hurrying on, by duty led, To bank, or warehouse, or to court of law. The myriad sounds have ceased, which nature saw Were fit to wait upon the day of toil; Nor mendicant nor ballad beggar foil The sacred rest with their assiduous song. And round the factory door the noisy throng Forgets to come as on the other days; Aside her task the weary seamstress lays, Now from the close and foul-aired workroom free. The toilsome shop is closed, and also he Who for the week stood there doth taste the sweets Of liberty awhile; the penman meets No more the tiring scroll; and now in chain The prisoner sits within his dungeon, wan And weary; but he hears some soothing strain Break through the thick and iron-girded wall; And then the heavy shackles seem to fall From off his feet; a strange emotion fills His soul, and through his wasted body thrills, When of the bygone days he thinks in sweet And lingering thought; and then his eyes to meet The scanty rays are turned, and on his mind Awhile the captive fate forgets to find Its deepest force or weary sigh to send. Turn from the city, and to country lend A passing thought. All labor is at rest. The plough lies set, point in the mottled breast Of half-tilled field; the flail is laid above The barn’s brown wall; the shining sickles move Not from their keep; the woodman’s axe is still; The golden sheaf doth not the feeder fill; The huntsman’s horn is hung behind the door; The delver’s spade stands idle on the floor; The horse and oxen run the open field, Set free to graze; the holloaing drivers wield No whip or goad, and all the swain is free; The laborer walks abroad, and turns to see, With favoring look, the toilings of his hand, And fruits of labor rising from the land; The rustic lovers saunter in the fields, To talk of love and reap the joy it yields. The tower-clock now the worship-hour relates, And every church the worshipper awaits. Then thither come the cottar and his wife, (Once fair, now furrowed with the cares of life,) With sons and daughters; and, behind them near, The jovial farmer and his wife appear. Then comes the county squire; till the seats, One after one, are full. Then shortly meets The people’s eager eye the tranquil face Of their beloved pastor, in his place. He kneels to God, and in deep fervour prays A sweet and powerful prayer; then he lays The open Bible down, and well expounds The message of the Saviour’s love, till bounds, For truths so hallowed, every tending heart In joy. Then praise is sung; a ready part Takes every voice to raise a worthy song, Which breaks from seat to seat the aisle along. Then kneel the people by the throne of grace To take the blessing, ere they part to pace Again the world’s besetting path. It falls Among them like as dew upon the palls Of parchéd flowers, to raise and nourish in The hour of need the vital spark within.

Sweetest and fairest, hallowed day of rest! “Peace” is thy banner and thy mottoed crest— An open boon to all. The weary wait— The weary wait and sigh to see the gate Of dawn admit thee forth in eastern sky. The merchant’s daughter, as each morn goes by, Looks on the scenes without, and counts the days That fly—six, five, four, three, two, one—and lays A hopeful joy upon the day to come, When she shall by her father sit, and some Inspiring volume read, or, in a walk Through wood or vale, employ the time in talk, Sweet and instructively. The widow waits To see her son come home, and anxious gets When near the hour has drawn that she shall hear The step of her sole comforter draw near, With whom on earth she findeth sweetest joy. The orphans wait, and every night employ A time in prayer, that God be pleased to spare Their elder brother, and bestow him fair And happy days. They long the Sabbath day; For then he comes among them, and doth lay A cheerful spirit to the humble home; Pure and delicious truths he tells them from A flowing heart, and they all love him well. All people love the Sabbath—they who dwell In early years of innocence and joy, And they of lusty prime, whom cares employ A thousand snares to tangle or to stem. But more than all, the Sabbath is to them A day of sweet delight who totter near The precincts of the grave without a fear— Yea, rather, with a joyous hope ere long To leave the weary ranks they now belong, Of feeble age, and, passing death’s dark throng, Attain the kingdom of eternal song.